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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



EACH IN ^ ^ 
HIS OWN TONGUE 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 
WILUAM HERBERT CARRUTH 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK & LONDON 

Zbe Itnicftcrbocfter iPrcss 

1908 






LIBRARY of 00N8RESS 
Two Copies fiecfelved 

0£C 21 1908 



fifO 



? 



Copyright, 1908 

BY 

WILLIAM HERBERT CARRUTH 



XCbe ftnfcftcrbocfter ipre^s, IWcw l^otR 



CONTENTS 

My Will ..... 

Each in His Own Tongue 

A Rhyme of Thomas the Doubter 

God Bless You 

It Is Glory Enough 

Dreamers of Dreams 

When the Cannon Booms 

How Can One Heart Hold Them 

Both? .... 

The Time to Strike . 
Peace, Be Still 
If He should Come . 
The Plaint of the Fruitless Fig 

Tree .... 

The Brother of the Prodigal 

Son ..... 
The Woman Taken in Adultery 
Heaven and Hell 
Peace on Earth, Good Will to 

Women .... 
An Honest Christening . 
The 13TH Vendemiaire 
The Phantom Guest 
The Song behind the Shutter 
Von Ferne .... 
Unweit dem Ziel 



PAGE 

I 

2 

4 

6 

8 

10 

12 

15 
16 

19 
21 



26 
32 
34 

37 
39 
41 
45 
47 
48 

49 



iv Contents 

PAGE 

Heim ...... 50 

Immergruen . . . . .51 

A Greeting ..... 52 

An Answer • • • • • 53 

In Absence — To Her Picture . . 54 

Wasted Sunshine .... 56 

Song at Sunset . . . -57 

-Faith ...... 58 

When My Lady-Love Lived Here 59 

She Was Along .... 60 

After a While .... 61 

And so We Two must Part at Last . 63 

The Touch of Time ... 65 

Entschlafen ..... 68 

Nature's Epitaph .... 70 

Childhood in the Slums . . -71 

The Sleeping Beauty ... 72 

O Grave, Where Is Thy Victory? . 74 

The Setting ... . . 76 

On One Who Died in Childbirth . 77 

Hagen und Volker .... 79 

Weeds ...... 81 

Adam's First Sleep .... 82 

Mother, What Cheer? ... 83 

Something Remains . 

To Some Friends Made Long Ago 

AT Sea 
God Knew What Stormy Seas 
Lieder ohne Worte 
A Poet to a Violinist 
Charles Robinson of Kansas 



i^ontents 


V 




PAGE 


William Cullen Bryant . 


91 


To John G. Whittier 


92 


John Brown . . . . . 


94 


It Does Not Pay . . . . 


95 


The Master of Brynwood 


96 


Beneath the Ice 


98 


The Tide Is Out 


99 


Under the Leaves . 


100 


A Stormy Night 


lOI 


Would God I Were Now by thi 




Sea 


102 


King Arthur's Hunt 


104 


Farewell to a Modest Scholar 


106 


My Muse 


108 


The Place to be Born 


no 


Flower and Song 


III 


A Miracle .... 


113 


Every Spring is Greener 


115 


The Gospel of Hate 


117 


A New Year's Thought . 


120 


Old Year and New 


121 


To-MORROW .... 


122 


Life ..... 


. 123 


Hymn ..... 


124 


Life at K. S. U. 


126 


TrINK AUP MEIN WoHL MIT AUGE> 




NUR . . . . , 


128 


Oft IN DER STILLEN NaCHT 


129 



MY WILL 

POR thee my will, which I 've been told 
Imperious was and hard to hold — 
For thee H is changed; I think H is right 
That I should tell thee how the might 
Of love like thine my soul doth mould. 
So heed once more thy teacher hold, 
Whose heart hath not with years grown 
cold; 
Life's lesson I will read aright 
For thee, my Will: 
Age sweeter grows if love unfold 
Our being while we 're growing old; 
Who 'd wish to be more erudite 
Than read with lover's deeper sight 
The lore that 's writ in living gold 
For thee, my WilL 

Frances Schlegel Carruth. 



EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE 

AFIRE-MIST and a planet, 
A crystal and a cell, 
A jelly-fish and a saurian, 

And caves where the cave-men dwell ; 
Then a sense of law and beauty 

And a face turned from the clod, — 
Some call it Evolution, 
And others call it God. 

A haze on the far horizon. 

The infinite, tender sky, 
The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, 

And the wild geese sailing high ; 
And all over upland and lowland 

The charm of the golden-rod, — 
Some of us call it Autumn, 

And others call it God. 

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, 
When the moon is new and thin, 

Into our hearts high yearnings 
Come welling and surging in : 



Each in His Own Tongue 3 

Come from the mystic ocean 

Whose rim no foot has trod, — 
Some of us call it Longing, 
• And others call it God. 

A picket frozen on duty, 

A mother starved for her brood, 
Socrates drinking the hemlock. 

And Jesus on the rood; 
And millions who, humble and nameless. 

The straight, hard pathway plod, — 
Some call it Consecration, 

And others call it God. 



A RHYME OF THOMAS THE 
DOUBTER 

WHEN the Master had finished the 
story of the sower and the 
seed, 
And had shown his disciples the lesson 
of rock and wayside and weed, 

Then up spoke Thomas the Doubter, 
and his brow was furrowed with 
thought, — 

He had seen a darker problem in the 
lesson that was taught. 

** Master,'* said Thomas the Doubter, 
*'when the seed sown is the word, 

I can see the meaning right plainly of 
the lesson we have heard ; 

''But, Master, say that the sower were 
God and the seed were men. 

And some of them fell by the wayside, 
what were the lesson then? 
4 ' 



A Rhyme of Thomas the Doubter 5 

''For I see men daily, my brothers, like 
the seed of which you spoke, 

And among the thorns fall many, and 
the thorns spring up and choke. 

**And some of them, good Master, fall 

where the soil is scant. 
And they perish there for the absence of 

the life for which they pant. 

''It is easy,'' said Thomas the Doubter, 
"for those on good soil cast. 

For they have their joy of living and 
the harvest at the last; 

"But those who fall by the wayside, in 
thorns and on stony ground. 

Are they like the seed grain scattered by 
a careless hand around?" 

But the Master was silent and mourn- 
ful, and his brow was furrowed with 
thought, 

And there lay on his soul a burden which 
Thomas the Doubter had wrought. 



GOD BLESS YOU 

WHEN you \e struggled hard and 
long 
And the battle has gone wrong 

And a world of cares oppress you, 
Like cool water from a spring, 
Like the balm the south winds bring, 
Are the simple words, ''God bless 
you." 

When you 're going far away, 
Far from all you love to stray, 

And the parting-pangs distress you. 
Like a sunbeam in the heart, 
Though the choking tears may start. 

Are the words, '*Good-by, God bless 
you/* 

When the bitter days are past. 
When your joy is full at last, 

And the winds of heaven caress you, 

6 



God Bless You 7 

Then the heart will overflow 
While the happy head bends low 

And a true friend says, *'God bless 
you." 

Be his faith in James or Paul, 
One God, many, or none at all. 

Whose kind lips the words address 
you. 
Nothing matters; when it needs, 
Doubts, philosophies and creeds 

Are forgotten in *'God bless you." 



IT IS GLORY ENOUGH 

IT is glory enough to have shouted the 
name 
Of the living God in the teeth of an 

army of foes ; 
To have thrown all prudence and fore- 
thought away 
And for once to have followed the call 

of the soul 
Out into the danger of darkness, of ruin 

and death. 
To have counselled with right, not suc- 
cess, for once. 

Is glory enough for one day. 

It is glory enough for one day 

To have marched out alone before the 

seats of the scornful. 
Their fingers all pointing your way; 
To have felt and wholly forgotten the 

branding-iron of their eyes; 
To have stood up proud and reliant on 

only your soul 
And go calmly on with your duty — 
It is glory enough. 
8 



// Is Glory Enough 9 

It is glory enough to have taken the 
perilous risk; 

Instead of investing in stocks and paid- 
up insurance for one, 

To have fitted a cruiser for right to 
adventure a sea full of shoals ; 

To sail without chart and with only the 
stars for a guide ; 

To have dared to lose with all the 
chances for losing 
Is glory enough. 

It is glory enough for one day 

To have dreamed the bright dream of 

the reign of right ; 
To have fastened your faith like a flag to 

that immaterial staff 
And have marched away, forgetting 

your base of supplies. 
And while the worldly wise see nothing 

but shame and ignoble retreat, 
And though far ahead the heart may 

faint and the flesh prove weak — 
To have dreamed that bold dream is 

glory enough, 

Is glory enough for one day. 



DREAMERS OF DREAMS 

WE are all of us dreamers of dreams ; 
On visions our childhood is 
fed; 
And the heart of the child is unhaunted, 
it seems, 
By the ghosts of dreams that are dead. 

From childhood to youth 's but a span 

And the years of our youth are soon 

sped; 

Yet the youth is no longer a youth , but 

a man, 

When the first of his dreams is dead. 

There 's no sadder sight this side the 
grave 
Than the shroud o'er a fond dream 
spread. 
And the heart should be stern and the 
eyes be brave 
To gaze on a dream that is dead. 

lO 



Dreamers of Dreams 1 1 

'T is as a cup of wormwood and gall 
When the doom of a great dream is 
said, 

And the best of a man is under the pall 
When tlie best of his dreams is dead. 

He may live on by compact and plan 
When the fine bloom of living is shed, 

But God pity the little that 's left of a 
man 
When the last of his dreams is dead. 

Let him show a brave face if he can, 
Let him woo fame or fortune instead, 

Yet there \s not much to do but bury a 
man 
When the last of his dreams is dead. 



WHEN THE CANNON BOOMS 

WHEN the cannon booms, 
When the war-drums rattle fiercely 
And the feet of men in khaki hammer 
time out on the pave, 

It is easy to be brave ; 
It is easy to believe that God is angry 
with the other 

Man, our brother, 
And has left the sword of Gideon in our 
wayward human hand, 

When the cannon booms. 

When the cannon booms, 
When the battle-flags are fluttering and 
men are going mad 

With the blind desire for glory. 
Filled with visions grand and gory 

12 



When the Cannon Booms 13 

It is easy to assent 
To the Corsican blasphemer's scoffing 

creed ; 
It is easy to believe God is with the big 
battalions, 

Whether cherubim or hellions, 
When the cannon booms. 

When the cannon booms, 
When the primal love of fighting stirs 
the tiger in our blood, 
And the fascinating smell 
Of the sulphur-fumes of hell 
Rouses memories of the pit from which 
our human nature rose, 

It is ea^y to forget 
God was not found in the earthquake, 

in the strong wind or the fire; 
It is easy to forget how at last the 
prophet heard Him 

As a still, small voice, 
When the cannon booms. 

When the cannon booms, 
When the war-lords strut and swagger 



14 When the Cannon Booms 

And the battle-ships are plowing for the 
bitter crop of death, 

While the shouting rends the ear, 

Echoing from the empyrean. 
It it difficult to hear 

Through the din the Galilean 
With his calm voice preaching peace on 
earth to men; 

'T will be easier to claim, 
If we will, the Christian name. 
To become as little children and be men 

of gentle will, 
When the cannon booms — the cannon 
booms — no more. 



HOW CAN ONE HEART HOLD 
THEM BOTH ? 

SNOWY bosoms, silks, and musk, 
Music, laughter, raillery, wit; — 
Thin forms slinking through the dusk 

Where despair and famine flit : 
Poet, preacher, tell me sooth, 
How can one heart hold them both? 

Books, seclusion, lettered labor, 

Burning thirst for name and fame;- 

Helpful love for friend and neighbor, 
Sympathy for blind and lame : 

Poet, preacher, tell me sooth. 

How can one heart hold them both ? 

Art, aesthetic teas, and science, 
Pride, precedence, pedigrees; — 

Gaunt toil full of fierce defiance, 
Hovels full of fell disease : 

Poet, statesman, tell me sooth. 

How can one State hold them both? 
15 



THE TIME TO STRIKE 

MY God, I am weary of waiting for 
the year of jubilee ; 
I know that the cycle of man is a mo- 
ment only to thee ; 
They have held me back with preaching 

what the patience of God is like, 
But the world is weary of waiting; will 
it never be time to strike ? 

When my hot heart rose in rebellion at 

the wrongs my fellows bore, 
It was *'Wait until prudent saving has 

gathered you up a store'' ; 
And *'Wait till a higher station brings 

value in men's eyes" ; 
And *'Wait till the gray-streaked hair 

shall argue your counsel wise." 

The hearts that kindled with mine are 
caught in the selfsame net ; 

One waits to master the law, though his 
heartstrings vibrate yet ; 

l6 



The Time to Strike 1 7 

And one is heaping up learning, and 
many are heaping up gold, 

And some are fierce in the forum, while 
slowly we all wax old. 

The rights of man are a b5rword; the 

bones are not yet dust 
Of those who broke the shackles and the 

shackles are not yet rust 
Till the masters are forging new ones, 

and coward lips are sealed 
While the code that cost a million lives 

is step by step repealed. 

The wily world-enchantress is working 

her cursed charm, 
The spell of the hypnotizer is laming us 

head and arm ; 
The wrong dissolves in a cloudbank of 

^Vhether'^ and "if" and "still," 
And the subtleties of logic inhibit the 

sickly will. 

The bitter lesson of patience I have 

practised, lo! these years; 
Can it be, what has passed for prudence 

was prompted by my fears? 



1 8 The Time to Strike 

Can I doubt henceforth in my choosing, 
if such a choice I must have, 

Between being wise and craven or being 
foolish and brave? 

Whenever the weak and weary are ridden 

down by the strong. 
Whenever the voice of honor is drowned 

by the howling throng. 
Whenever the right pleads clearly while 

the lords of life are dumb, 
The times of forbearance are over and 

the time to strike is come. 



PEACE, BE STILL 

PEACE, storm and conflict, peace! 
What is the use ? be still ! 
Catch breath, and feel the thrill 
Of the remorseless engine pumping 
out your life days one by one. 
What is the fight when won? 
Cease, hot rebellion, cease! 

That tempest, where is it now? 

The wren on the cherry-bough 

Bubbles with pent-up joy; 

The cricket there in the grass is as 
sober now as before ; the team- 
ster whistles and the maid 
trudges void of thought; 
Pass your hand over your brow; 
Where is that tempest now? 
19 



20 Peace y Be Still 

Nowhere, then, but within? 
There, too, let it subside. 

See the sweet sunshine sleeping on 
that wall ! 
The sky is blue and wide ; 
Out yonder, kin by kin, 

Thousands, their hot pulse stilled 
forever 'neath the sod, sleep, 
storms and all, — 
They, too, would have their will; 
What have they now? Be still. 



IF HE SHOULD COME 

IF He should come in such a guise 
As once He wore 'neath Judah's 
skies, 
And walk about as He did then 
Among the busy throngs of men, 
And call them to the Last Assize,— 
Would not He meet incredulous eyes 
And pity or amused surprise 
From every Christian citizen. 
If He should come? 

The scribes and Pharisees would not 

rise, 
Stung by His lashings of their lies. 
To nail Him to the cross again, 
But merely tap their foreheads when 
He spoke, with sympathetic sighs, 
If He should come. 



21 



THE PLAINT OF THE FRUITLESS 
FIG-TREE 

I HAD been humbly following his path 
From the low manger where he saw 
the light, 
Through all its wanderings until the day 
When the glad populace strewed the 

way with palms 
Before the King upon the ass's foal. 
I think that exultation and amaze 
Must have contended in him, and the 

dream 
Of Judah regnant may have dazzled 

him. 
He turned away and went to Bethany 
To let the dizzy surge of blood recede 
And leave him calm to meet the coming 

doom. 
Thither I followed, and at sultry noon 
I sank beside the road beneath a tree 
That spread a scanty foliage of brown 
And cast the shadow of a shadow o'er 
The turfy hummock where I laid my 

head. 

22 



The Plaint of the Fruitless Fig- Tree 23 

I thought I would not sleep, and fixed 

my eye 
On one unhappy tuft of yellow leaves, 
A-marvelling how the all-enlivening 

spring 
Had left this one tree destitute of green. 
And as I gazed the quivering noon was 

moved; 
A little zephyr set the leaves astir. 
And from their midst the eager silence 

spoke : 
'* I am the fruitless fig-tree; 

Hearken what made my name 
In all the wide world-garden 
A byword and a shame. 

** Bright were the spring days on me, 

My spreading leaves among 
The pale green buds were swelling. 

And low my branches hung. 

** Weary and sorely troubled 

Came one along the way, 
And paused with his friends beside me, 

Late on a sunny day. 



2 4 The Plaint of the Fruitless Fig^Tree 

** Vainly among my branches 
For cooling fruit they sought — 

Surely they knew that in April 
The search must be for nought? 

** Stem grew the brow of the leader; 

He opened his mouth and spake 
A heavy curse against me, — 

A curse for the season's sake. 

** How could I comprehend it? 

I thought he must know why; 
And I saw my foliage wither 

With only a gentle sigh. 

** But the little birds that gathered 
Beneath my leaves at night, 

And the bees, were grieved about it 
And could not find it right. 

*' I have questioned many a doctor 

And many a cowled saint. 
But none of them all can tell me 

The cause of my punishment. 



The Plaint of the Fruitless Fig- Tree 25 

** And so through summer and winter 

Barren and brown I stand; 
I grieve and puzzle about it 

And cannot understand. 

'' I am waiting now for the Judgment, 
For the dawn of the righteous day, 

When the curse and the shame and the 
evil fame 
Shall be lifted and blown away/' 

The shifting sunlight fell athwart my 

eyes, — 
I stirred, and opened them, and looking 

up 
Beheld the dull green branches full of 

fruit. 
I got my staff in hand, and all the way 
To Bethany I marvelled o'er and o'er. 
Whether I dreamed at first, and made 

the plaint 
While wide awake, or whether when I 

woke 
I woke into a dream, or whether when 
I read that strange tale in the Book, I 

dream. 



THE BROTHER OF THE PRODIGAL 
SON 

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE BROTHER 
AND THE FATHER OF THE PRODIGAL 

THE BROTHER 

Sire, my heart is sore to-day; 
Sire, I have somewhat to say. 
I do not grudge my brother aught 
Of the joys this day has brought; 
Less thou couldst not well have done, 
Seeing that he is thy son ; 
Yet it rankles in my heart, — 
I that chose the better part 
Never from thy lips have heard 
Blessing or approving word. 

THE FATHER 

Yea, the better part hadst thou, 
Hence no need of comfort now. 
Thou dost know the joy serene 
Come of hand and conscience clean. 

26 



The Brother of the Prodigal Son 2 7 

Every time we sat at food 
Was a feast of gratitude ; 
Duty's blessings clustering hung 
Daily the dark leaves among. 

THE BROTHER 

Sire, the heart thou know'st not well; 

Very little it doth tell 

In the glow of youth's springtide 

Of a conscience satisfied. 

Nay, a poor joy it would be 

To contemplate constantly 

How in spite of us the real 

Falls below the high ideal. 

Duty 's not the only tooth 

Gnawing at the heart of youth. 

THE FATHER 

Son, thou grievest me right sore, — 
Scarce thy brother grieved me more ; 
He was blind, and blinding sin 
Hid the way that he was in ; 
He has chewed the bitter root, 
Found how little it doth boot ; 



2 8 The Brother of the Prodigal Son 

Now an outcast, contrite, poor, 
Comes he to his father's door, 
And thou grudgest him a sup 
From thine ever-brimming cup. 

THE BROTHER 

When my brother went away 
And my duty bade me stay. 
Think not 't was an easy thing; 
I too heard the sirens sing. 
And that song rang in my ears 
All the dull, monotonous years 
While with cheerless heart I wooed 
That cold, unresponsive prude 
Virtue, and the sun will set 
With the sweet song ringing yet. 

THE FATHER 

Much I marvel at thy word ; 
Such wild thoughts I never heard 
From thine erewhile temperate tongue 
Here, the white-fleeced flocks among. 
Daily with the calm-eyed kine 
Following down the furrow-line. 



The Brother of the Prodigal Son 2 9 

Whence, in such meek company, 
Did these fierce thoughts come to thee? 
Sure thy brain is overwrought 
That thou countest virtue naught. 

THE BROTHER 

Virtue is a glittering star, 
Very cold and very far ; 
Sin is warm and fierce and near, 
Ever whispering in our ear. 
You whose arteries quiet flow, 
Little do you dream or know. 
While we go about our work, 
How the lures of hell do lurk 
In the unseen, surging flood 
Of our hot, tempestuous blood. 

THE FATHER 

Sin at hand and virtue far, — 
Soul and sense in thee at war, — 
Yet the struggle left no trace 
On thy firm, impassive face? 
This is born of some disease ; 
Never such mad words as these 
Came from thine own natural heart 
From all poison-taint apart. 



30 The Brother of the Prodigal Son 

Or is thine unwarded breast 
By some evil fiend possessed? 

THE BROTHER 

In the hearths recesses sit 

All the demons of the pit, 

Bound with chains of slightest hair 

Which an easy breath may tear. 

Some in beauty perilous 

Unto pleasure beckon us, 

Some in monstrous shapes of doubt 

Scoff our better yearnings out ; — 

Such companions hath the soul 

While the placid seasons roll. 

THE FATHER 

At the thought of this thy strife. 
As from out another life, 
From the chambers of my past 
Phantom memories gather fast 
Of the storms of other days. 
Time hath greatly changed my ways ; 
Duty's habitude doth keep 
Youth's dead passions buried deep. 
Yet these conflicts once were mine 
And my youth was like to thine. 



The Brother of the Prodigal Son 3 1 

THE BROTHER 

Duty, sire, is like the moon, 
Love is like the sun at noon. 
Duty has no heat to make 
Roses from the thorn-bush break. 
Love, love, love, O sire, I crave, — 
Love can make the faint heart brave. 
He who treads the fiowerless path 
Likewise need of comfort hath ; 
All the charms of virtue prove 
Dust beside the balm of love. 

THE FATHER 

Son, my heart is strangely moved ; 

Justly do I stand reproved. 

All too lightly I forgot 

The temptations of thy lot ; 

Homely duties fitly borne 

Match the prodigal's return. 

Yea, for him who never wandered. 

Not less than for him who squandered 

His endowment, should there be 

Fatted calf and jubilee. 

{They go together to the feast) 



THE WOMAN TAKEN IN 
ADULTERY 

JESUS sat in the treasury, 
Answering scribe and Pharisee 
Questions of law and subtlety. 

Thither a woman to him they brought 
In the act of adultery caught, 
Worthy of death, as Moses taught ; 

Knowing that Jesus' teachings were 
Love and mercy for all that err, 
Asked him what they should do with 
her. 

Stooping, Jesus wrote on the floor 
Something the wise men pondered o'er — 
Hid from the world forevermore. 

*'He that hath no sins of his own 
May be the first, and he alone. 
At the woman to cast a stone." 
32 



The Woman Taken in Adultery 33 

This is the judgment the judges heard ; 
Thence they slunk with never a word ; 
Neither he nor the woman stirred. 

After a silence Jesus said : 
''Whither are thine accusers fled? 
Hath none against thee witnessed?'' 

Answered the woman humbly, ''No/' 
"Cease from sin," said Jesus; "and lo! 
Neither do I condemn thee. Go." 

Natheless the woman did not rise ; 
Lifted only her shame-red eyes, 
Gazing at Jesus in helpless wise: 

" Death and shame await me whether 
I turn me hither or turn me thither: 
Go, sayest thou; but, Master, whither?" 

Did Jesus leave her lying low? 
Gladly the puzzled world would know 
Whither the Master bade her go. 



HEAVEN AND HELL 

THE preacher paused at paragraph 
Eight, 
In the midst of Paradise ; 
From One to Six he had painted the fate 

Of the victims of wilful vice, 
And now he allured to a nobler life 

With visions of future bliss, 
Where ease shall atone for present strife 
And the next world balance this. 

But ere he could take up caput Nine 

Some one opened the outer door, 
And heads were turned down the main 
aisle line 

At the sound of feet on the floor ; 
A woman with eyes that brooked no bar 

Strode through the gallery arch. 
In her right hand bearing a water- jar 

And in her left a torch. 
34 



Heaven and Hell 35 

The preacher lifted his solemn eyes 

And mildly shook his head ; 
He gazed at the woman in grieved sur- 
prise 
Who had broken his sermon's thread; 
He raised his voice while she still was far 

And hoped to stay her march : 
** What would you here with your water- 
jar, 
And what would you here with the 
torch?'' 

**A shame," she cried, **on your coward 
creed! 

And have you no faith in man? 
I bear this witness 'gainst fear and greed, 

I burn and quench as I can : 
The torch I bear to set heaven afire 

And the water to put out hell, 
That men may cease to do good for hire, 

And the evil from fear to quell." 

She came near the altar and swung her 
torch, 
And dashed the water around, 



$6 Heaven and Hell 

Then turned and passed through aisle 
and through porch, 
While the people sat spell-bound. 
She walks the earth with her emblems 
dire 
And she works her mission well : 
The torch to set high heaven afire 
And the water to put out hell. 



PEACE ON EARTH, GOOD WILL TO 
WOMEN 

' TP IS nearly nineteen hundred years 
1 Since the Judean shepherds 
heard 
Peal from the solemn, starlit sky 

The one supreme, long-needed word, — 
Needed as sadly now as then : 
*' Peace and good will on earth to men." 
Alas ! they caught no chord that hymn in 
Of peace on earth, good will to women. 

Down the stern centuries since that night 

The angel prophecy has thrilled, 
Aye echoing through the upper air ; 

On earth it still is unfulfilled. 
Men hear the song, strife does not cease; 
Never will come the age of peace 
Until the carol with new vim in 
Brings peace on earth, good will to 
women. 

37 



^8 Peace on Earth, Good Will to Women 

The potentates of Christendom 

Preach peace to-day with Gatling- 

guns; 
Statesmen, to spread good will on earth, 
Make cannon-food of mothers' sons; 
Yet even in the hot battle's breath 
The Red Cross soothes the pangs of 

death, 
While eyes the light of life grows dim in 
Pray, *' Peace on earth, good will to 

women." 

To man the race, not men the sex. 
The message from on high was sent; 

These weary centuries in vain 

Men sought, alone, the Christ's intent. 

Now, with new-dowered inner ear. 

In the angelic strain we hear 

A swelling theme, the round world's 
rim in, — 

*' Peace and good will to men and 
women!" 



AN HONEST CHRISTENING 

THE MOTHER 

MY God, 
I pledge this child to Thee, 
To serve Thee three score years and ten. 

Although Thine image is in me 
So spoilt, Thou scarce wouldst know 't 

again, — 
So warped from its sacred uses, 
So scarred and twisted by abuses 
My own life is but half alive, 
I see not how my babe can thrive, — 
Yet grant this prayer to me. 
I pledge this child to Thee, 
My God. 

THE FATHER 

O Lord, 

My fathers' God, 
I pledge this child to all things good. 
I know that passion's lava-flood 
From the first hour consumes its blood ; 

39 



40 An Honest Christening 

Thou knowest the quenchless poison- 
thirst 
That long my father's house has cursed, 
This is my babe's inheritance: 
Passion, disease, intemperance. 

And yet, O Lord, 

My fathers' God, 
I pledge this child to all things good. 



THE 13TH VENDEMIAIRE 
St. Roch, Paris, 1881 

FACING these steps he stood — the 
man of fate — 
Nearly a hundred years ago — a young 

man then — 
New in the world and only a few years 

out of his mother's arms; 
All the thousands of restless women and 

men 
Now in the streets and the shops were 

dust and ashes then; 
All that saw him here, save the church 

walls and the sun, 
Are gone now, who knows where? and 

the day, too, it is gone. 
Down the little street and there where 

the houses are 
Came the citizen troops, as they thought, 

in a righteous war — 
41 



42 The i}th Vendemiaire 

Law and order and right against anarchy 

and wrong. 
Was it the will of a single man — a hired 

machine — 
Or the vast design of God that gave the 

order to fire? 
Strange how little we know! But if the 

order had failed, 
Or the advancing lines had been a little 

more strong, 
Thousands of lives like ours that were 

spent for a good unseen — 
By them or us — had passed in peace 

and joy. 
Thousands of hearts that bled, and 

voices that wailed 
For the husbands, lovers, and sons 

whose bones were scattered by 

him 
Over the charnel-house of Europe for 

twenty years, 
Had throbbed and sung their joys a 

lifetime as ours do now. 
But we who know the whole would 

scarce have chosen this way, 



The ijth Vendemiaire 43 

The way of ruin and woe, as the way of 

beauty and love ; — 
Was it the voice of the will of a man 

like us — 
Blind and cruel and selfish — that gave 

the order to fire, 
Or the hidden purpose of God? It is 

hard to say. 

Yonder on Belgium's plain, where the 

British lion stands 
With conquering paw on the world, his 

end came too. 
Twenty years of war, of anguish, ruin, 

and death. 
Between this day and that — and here 

the beginning of all. 
Can it be that in him, that one small, 

silent man. 
With his sluggish pulse that beat but 

one to our two. 
The seed of this whole bitter tree was 

lying on that day? 
Only a single word, — if God had not 

wished it so, 



44 The 13th Vendemiaire 

He might have stopped him then, it 

seems ; a wandering ball 
Had changed the course of the world — 

but it must be 
That this heartless servant of death was 

God's servant too. 
Only a word — and the great, cold, grin- 
ning guns 
Spoke with a voice whose echoes lasted 

for twenty years ; 
And there where the houses are and the 

careless people go, 
Lay the soulless bodies of men, their 

blood where the water flows, 
Stood the wavering ranks of the living 

soon to die. 
Two short hours, and all was over, the 

harvest begun. 
The steps and the walls of the church — • 

God's house — they do not blush 
For the shame they saw that day — God 

must have wished it so. 
Little we know of His ways — ^we are 

blind ; let us go. 



THE PHANTOM GUEST 

WE pull together in the yoke 
Of duty, neither shirking; 
I long to praise that heart of oak, 

But shrink, and keep on working; 
Yet oft I think what I should feel 

And say, should aught betide him, — 
If he were lying cold and still 
And I stood warm beside him. 

We two are rivals in the race; 

He wins the prize I covet ; 
I hate him frankly and lack grace 

To keep my heart above it ; 
Yet hate would be a tale that 's told, 

And gladly I 'd abide him. 
If he were lying still and cold 

And I stood warm beside him. 

T is years that we have been estranged, 
Well-nigh forgot the reason; 

All but our cursed pride has changed. 
Changed with the changing season; 
45 



46 The Phantom Guest 

Yet I could weep for him until 

His numb, dumb heart should chide 
him, 

If he were lying cold and still 
And I stood warm beside him. 

How many hates would be as not. 

How many wrongs be righted. 
Kind words be spoken, now forgot, 

Deeds done that now are slighted, 
If each man had, like them of old, 

This phantom guest to guide him, — 
His fellow lying still and cold, 

Himself all warm beside him ! 



THE SONG BEHIND THE SHUTTER 

1WALK the streets at night alone, 
The white lights stare and sputter, 
My feet keep time on the pavement - 
stone 
To the song behind the shutter. 

Behind the shutter the good folk sit; 

By the mirth that follows after 
I note the burst of each sally of wit, 

I hear their glee and laughter. 

Their glee and laughter flow unchecked 

By any haunting pity 
For the helmless bark that is drifting 
wrecked 

On the joyous shores of their city. 

Alone at night I walk the streets, 
The white lights stare and sputter; 

For hours my homeless heart repeats 
The song behind the shutter. 



47 



VON FERNE 

AS one who from his faithful house- 
hold goes 
Upon a distant journey, set about 
With unknown dangers, yet looks 
bravely out 
Beyond the toils and troubles that he 

knows 
Will settle on his future like the snows 
Of winter, and he dreams of that glad 

day 
When home no longer shall be far 
away, 
And cheers his spirit thus when faith 

burns low — 
So I here on the border of these years 
Through which my feet must wander 
all alone, 
Heart-weary, have one only thought 
that cheers: 
That after all the bitter days have 
flown, 
And after all the heart-ache and the 
tears. 
My faithful love at last may claim its 
own. 

48 



UNWEIT DEM ZIEL 

THE wanderer who has left his home 
behind 
To seek a happier one 'neath other skies, 
After long days on comfortless ways 
that rise 
And turn, footsore and heartsore, eyes 

tearblind, 
Mounting a higher peak than others, will 
find 
A glorious vision of the longed-for 

place 
Stretching sun-kissed along the moun- 
tain's base, 
Then goes on cheered and strengthened, 

body and mind. 
After unsatisfied yearnings and great 
fears 
Such vision has this summer been to 

me. 
Full of unspeakable happiness with 
thee, 
Into the not-far, ah! but too-far years 
When such a summer all our life shall 
be, — 
And short the onward journey now 
appears. 

4 49 



HEIM 

WHOM all the choir has sung as 
wayward, coy, 
A dear delusion, always just ahead, 
But never to a son of mortal wed. 
Given but to lure us on forever, Joy ! 
A resting-place she 's found that does 
not cloy, 
And she has made her lasting home 

with me ; 
Sweeter she found the days with Love 
and thee 
Than heartless with a million hearts to 

toy. 
Ah, with what flowing heart of thank- 
fulness 
I think of thee to whom all this I 
owe, — 
The better life, the hope, the peaceful- 
ness 
Of spirit, and the happiness I know; 
I thank thee, and I pray that God may 
bless, 
And grant that stronger still our love 
may grow. 

50 



IMMERGRUEN 

CHILL winds and gloomy skies are 
driving fast 
The summer's glory southward; life 

runs low; 
Despairingly the helpless leaves let go 
And tremble grave ward on the heartless 

blast ; 
The feathered minnesingers, too, have 
passed 
To happier lands where death and 

winter rob not ; 
Nature's great heart seems still, her 
pulses throb not ; 
O'er all the world despair and gloom are 

cast. 
Without, despair, but, God! what joy 
within! 
A happiness that, thought of, makes 
me start ; 
Unfading blooms and songs undying, 
when 
From outward nature all her charms 
depart, — 
For from the sunshine of thy love I win 
An everlasting springtime in my 
heart. 

51 



A GREETING 

/^OURAGE and hope go with thee, who 
^ hast been 
Courage and hope to those thou leav^st 

behind. 
Swift as thou run'st thy errand of the 
mind 
Our swifter thoughts outspeed thee still, I 

ween, 
And go before thee all unheard, unseen, 
Forming a presence that shall make 

more kind 
The rude caresses of the salty wind. 
More restful still the old town bowered in 

green. 
Behold, the days are dust that glitters and 
falls. 
The years but as the briefest summer 
night, — 
Scarce dark, and dawn is on the east- 
ward slope. 
Two things abide: the mighty spirit whose 
calls 
Thou followest seaward, and that love 
whose light 
More swiftly follows thee. Courage 
and hope ! 

Arthur Graves Canfield. 
52 



AN ANSWER 

IN these scholastic glooms, my hand 
still warm 
With that fond parting from my West, 
my world. 
If from the dark behind a coward arm 
At my bowed head some poisoned 
lance had hurled, 
I could have borne it well. As the sharp 
blast 
Brings back the life to one about to 
faint. 
Such an attack had made my hands 
clench fast 
And set lips send defiance, not com- 
plaint. 
But thy dear benison falls on my heart 
Like kindly sunshine on a frozen 
slope. 
Melting my numbing will, and down- 
ward start 
The hot and homesick tears. Yet will 
I hope 
The mellowed soil thus moistened may 

bring forth 
A better harvest than that icy earth. 
53 



IN ABSENCE— TO HER PICTURE 

WHEN the hour comes for putting 
out the light 
I go to greet thy picture at the last 
And the dear eyes resistless hold me 
fast — 
I cannot blot that sweetness with the 

night; 
I stay my breath, the salt mist blinds 
my sight, 
But still, love-lustrous when the mist 

is past, 
Reproachful trust those dear orbs on 
me cast. 
And guilty sorrow overcomes me quite. 
E*en so, meseems, in fierce Othello's 
breast 
The strife ran, when with purpose 
passion-fired 
54 



In Absence — To Her Picture S5 

He gazed on that fair sleeper, 

doomed to death 
Unknowing. Then with jealous- 
poisoned breath 
He quenched that light forever. I, 
inspired 
By thy dear will, snuff mine, and go 
to rest. 



WASTED SUNSHINE 

DEAR God, thy gentle sunlight falls 
Adown the shimmering green 
So lovingly on these cold walls 
And the bright turf between. 

It falls so pitilessly sweet 
Across my lonesome way, — 

Its comfort lies about my feet • 
In vain, this weary day. 

For like a blow my heart doth smite 

The autumn's golden glory. 
As do the rays of heaven's light 

The souls in purgatory. 

Dear God, thy blessed sunlight falls 
Athwart my glooming heart. 

But leaves it cold as these cold walls 
The while we are apart. 



56 



SONG AT SUNSET 

THE sun goes down in the west, 
To the land where the evening 
star 
Hangs bright on the evening's breast, — 
To the land where my loved ones are. 

But the sun, when the night is done, 
Conies up o'er the bitter main; 

Ah, if I were the setting sun 
I never should rise again! 



57 



FAITH 

ALTHOUGH I know she is miles 
away, 
I search for her face in the crowd all 

day; 
My hungry eyes wander like Noah's dove 
And find in the man-flood no sign of my 
love. 

I know it is foolish, but eyes are too true 

To give up the quest, though they Ve 
never a clue ;t 

One day they shall find the one face 
'neath the sun 

And the parting and longing and watch- 
ing be done. 



58 



WHEN MY LADY-LOVE LIVED 
HERE 

ONCE this street was holy ground, 
And the friendly walls around 
Seemed to smile as I came near, 
When my lady-love lived here. 

So to-day I sought the place, 
Homesick for her blessed face. 
And the senseless walls of stone 
Made me feel the more alone. 

Henceforth I will guard my feet 
When they wander toward this street. 
Desolate now as it was dear 
When my lady-love lived here. 

When the spirit goes away 
Shall I shun its house of clay? 
Shall I only say, How drear. 
Since my love 's no longer here? 



59 



SHE WAS ALONG 

WHEN last I went this way 
The swaying elms among, 
It was a joyous day — 
She was along. 

When the grand arch of sky, 
The great air sweet and strong 

Drew forth my soul's reply, 
She was along. 

A haunting faint perfume 

Steals o'er me mid the throng; 

When last I smelled that bloom 
She was along. 

A wild and nameless pain 
Distracts me in the song; 

Joy once was in the strain — 
She was along. 

Could I wipe out the past, 
Would I thus do her wrong? 

Shall I regret at last 
She was along? 



60 



AFTER A WHILE 

AFTER a while the goal I failed to 
gain 
Will tease my heart no more, but 
sink from view; 
The sting of loss will ease its sharper 
pain, 
And life's invincible joyousness anew 
My soul beguile 
After a while. 

After a while I shall not greatly care 
Whether my foes are fierce or friends 
are true ; 
I shall be satisfied to do my share, 
Nor jealously insist upon my due. 
Nor fate revile, 
After a while. 

6i 



62 After a While 

After a while it will not hurt so sore 
To look upon the spot she loved so 
well ; 
I shall not feel so lonesome when the 
door 
Opens and she conies not, missing the 
spell 
Of her sweet smile, 
After a while. 

After a while the night will pass away, — 
The long, long night of waiting and of 
woe; 
My soul has longed for day or death, but 
day 
Must come, must come, though spec- 
ter-filled and slow 
The hours defile. 
After a while. 



AND SO WE TWO MUST PART 
AT LAST 

AND so the thing we feared has come, 
And so we two must part at 
last, — 
We who had said it could not be, 
So often in the past. 

We shared a pinched and struggling 
youth, 

We fought each other* s battles all, 
We kept each other's hopes alive 

Through bitterness and gall. 

We mourned when others' loves were 
lost. 

More closely each to each we drew; 
Seeing their faith in life go out 

Our hearts together grew. 

Our paths led onward side by side ; 

The night came down, but aye serene 
Into the gloom we walked, assured 

That nought could come between. 
63 



64 And so We Two must Pari at Last 

But evil powers worked in the dark; 

Though near we heard each other's 
call, 
When the darkness fled the rising day, 

Between us rose a wall. 

And though the voice sound aye the 
same 
And though we say that nought has 
passed, 
The evil day we feared so long 
Has come on us at last. 

This was the last bond of our youth, 
By this we know that we are men; 

But we never again can love a man 
As we loved each other then. 



THE TOUCH OF TIME 

THE very smile of God 
Lighted the feet that trod 
Love's rosy path one sweet, indelible 
day; 
How hardly you had said 
That smile could ever fade 
Or that great splendor ever pass away! 

Yet the day had its close ; 

Another morning rose, 
Bright, but yet dull to what that day 
did give; 

Not twice can human eyes 

Endure the vast surprise 
To look upon the face of God, and live. 

Now, tempered and subdued, 
Fitted to mortal mood, 
5 65 



66 The Touch of Time 

The chastened light suffuses every hour ; 

The generous heavens throw 

A pleasing afterglow 
On other hearts, of Love's transfiguring 
power. 

For you, dear one, 

The warm, white sun 

Faded one day mid-sky. 

Grew faint and cold and high. 
Seemed to mock you with its glare, 
Its unsympathetic stare ; 

And you fled to the gloom 

Of your empty room, 
And the cold about your heart 
Made you start, 

Made you shiver. 

And think of the quiet of the river, 
And wonder if the sun would ever dare 
to shine again. 

But the implacable day 
Rose prompt and mocking-warm, 

(Ah, if you might have had a 
week's delay — 
Of night and storm !) 



The Touch of Time 67 

But the threads began to draw, 
Unseen, scarce felt, of Mother Nature's 
law: 
A homely duty here, 
A mean act there, 
That roused the heat of wrath in your 
cold heart ; 
A hand for help held out, 
And all about 
Pervasive habit with her comforting 
arms. 

So day by day 

The winter wore away ; 

Life gained again his own. 

And Love regained his throne — 
Not less nor more, 

But wiser, stronger, and serener than 
before. 



ENTSCHLAFEN 

OFT when the mother's hands have 
laid 
To quiet sleep her babe so dear 
Her heart stands still with sudden 
fear 
Lest this be Death in masquerade. 

When the last silence of our clay 
Falls on the blossom lips that late 
Spake blessings inarticulate 

And tried her name but yesterday, 

The mother's heart with hope will leap — 
So faithful is the counterfeit — 
While something whispers low to it, 

*'Thy little one has fallen asleep. '* 

Ah, heaven, the dumb mystery 

That lies below the unopening eye ! 

Named with the name that withers 

Joy, 

At least we know not else of thee. 
68 



Entschlafen 69 

And thou dear Saxon mother-tongue, 
When the loved form lies cold and 

stark, 
When hope is sick and nature dark. 

And all the deep heartstrings are wrung. 

When round the grave the mourners 
weep 
Thank Heaven for thy sweet comfort- 
ing, 
As the priest's voice prays quavering, 
**Our little one has fallen asleep. '* 



NATURE'S EPITAPH 

WHO knows where the graveyard is 
Where the fox and the eagle lie? 
Who has seen the obsequies 
Of the red deer when they die? 

With death they steal away 

Out of the sight of the sun ; 
Out of the sight of the living, they 

Pay the debt and are done. 

No marble marks the place ; 

The common forest brown 
Covers them over with Quaker grace 

Just where they laid them down. 

But a few years, if you see 

In summer a deeper green 
Here and there, it is like to be 

The spot where their bones have been. 

Thus, not more, to the poor dead year: 
No grave, nor ghostly stone. 

But a greener life and a warmer cheer 
Be the only sign that he 's gone. 



70 



CHILDHOOD IN THE SLUMS 

THESE little lips have learned 
The language of wrath and sin, 
And the cheeks of one unused grow 
pale 
At the sounds his ears take in. 

Yet the thoughtless, unkind word 
On the o'erwrought mother's part 

Has found its way past the tiger spots 
And broken the childish heart. 



71 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 

M. H. 

THROUGH life's enchanted palace 
did she keep 
Her joyous way, heart-sunshine in her 

face 
And on her lips a benedicial grace, 
And eyes, it seemed, that knew not how 

to weep. 
Then came a jealous fate; sudden and 
deep 
He thrust the poisoned thorn; a little 

space. 
And silence falls and darkness o'er the 
place — 
And she and all the palace with her sleep. 

There she lies spellbound sleeping, while 
the hedge 
Of rose-thorned time divides us more 
each day. 
Until the Lord of Love Immortal make 
72 



The Sleeping Beauty 73 

The thorns turn into bloom, hope's rosy 

pledge, 
And on her waiting lips His warm kiss 

lay. 
And she and all the palace with her 

wake. 



O GRAVE, WHERE IS THY 
VICTORY? 

C. A. G. 

FOR twenty years did Nature wait 
without, 
Besetting that storm-beaten tenement, 
Claiming her debt ; from door to door 
she went, 
Rude battering with all her hostile rout. 
And we who helpless waiting stood 
about. 
While frail walls tottered and light 

bolts were bent, 
Dreading each day to see some fatal 
rent, 
We marvelled how that house should 

prove so stout. 
But Love was there, the lord of Life and 
Death, 
And held the importunate enemy at 
bay; 
Yet when his work was done, all 
peacefully 

74 



O Grave J Where Is Thy Victory? 75 

As dawn grows day, Life yielded up his 
breath, 
Surrendering to a vanquished en- 
emy. 
And took Love's hand in his and 
went away. 



THE SETTING 

C. A. G. 

HIS lesser gems the lapidary sets 
In cunning marvels of the gold- 
smith's art, 
Whose fretted bars and filigrees im- 
part 
An added brilliance to their starry jets; 
But the great balls of diamond fire he lets 
Into plain circlets whence contrasted 

dart 
Their lambent glories, dazzling in such 
sort 
That the rapt sight the setting clean 

forgets. 
God put the luminous soul of her who past 
Into that frail and anguish-stricken 
frame. 
That its supernal splendor might con- 
trast 
With its sad setting, till the living 
flame 
Burned the slight dross away, and at the 
last 
Transfigured to the Master's crown 
she came. 

76 



ON ONE WHO DIED IN 
CHILDBIRTH 

N. T. H. 

** A LONE/' we groan, when others 
r\ die, "alone!" 
Out of the joyous sunlight of this 

earth, 
Through the dark portals of the sec- 
ond birth 
Into the limitless Unknown, alone! 
Ah, sad to stand before His splendid 
throne. 
Or wander wistful mid celestial mirth, 
The human heart still hungry with 
love's dearth, 
In all that City of God alone unknown! 

How kinder Death to her! Behind the 
veil, 
The sun-bright shadow cast athwart 
our night, 

77 



78 On One IVho Died in Childbirth 

Her angel lingered, lest her heart 

should fail, 
Until, their souls well knit, they passed 

away. 
Pure of the earth with pure of heaven 

aflight 
Through God's wide fields, communing 

all the day. 



HAGEN UND VOLKER 

C. F. S. 

( Nibelungenlied, Abenteur 2g) 

IN Etzel's land they sat long years ago 
In the tense evening of that fatal 
day; 
On Hagen's knees a naked sword 
there lay, 
And Volker stroked his baleful fiddle- 
bow. 
So the Fair Vengeance found them coun- 
selling low ; 
No greeting but defiance offered they 
To her fierce menaces, and kept at bay 
With grim, sad eyes the wily Hunnish 
foe. 

When insolent Fate, with doom in either 
hand 
Came lording on us as we sat alone 

79 



8o Hagen und Volker 

Before the battle, friend, we did not 

rise. 
But each read fealty in the other's 
eyes, 
And like those doughty Niblungs daunt- 
less scanned 
Her scowling ministers, and faced 
them down. 



WEEDS 

POOR, homely, unloved things beside 
the way, 
That strive in voiceless ignominy, still 
Undaunted though downtrodden, to 
fulfil 
Your appointed purpose! Patient the 

long day 
Ye take the buffetings of scornful clay, 
Sustained by that small portion of 

God's dew 
Which thick-strewn dust permits to 
fall on you. 
And live where finer herbs must wilt 

away. 
Have ye, too, dreams of better things to 
be: 
Of worlds in which the crooked shall 
be straight. 
Where all that are in bondage shall be 
free 
And lifted up all those of low estate ; 
Where, to the thought that knows the 

potent seeds. 
Weeds shall be e'en as flowers, flowers as 
weeds? 
6 8i 



w 



ADAM'S FIRST SLEEP 

'HEN that first sleep on father 
Adam fell 
And his sweet world of Eden swooned 

away, 
Knowing nor sleep nor waking till that 
day- 
He had no other thought but all was 

well 
And yielded all-confiding to the spell. 
Lo, when the world of sense resumed 

its sway, 
Supernal Eve, sleep-born, beside him 
lay. 
And joy was his beyond what words can 

tell. 
How foolish, then, our fears of that last 
sleep ! 
No more than Adam of the end we 
know. 
When we lie down at last, may not we 
keep 
Trust that the reawakening will show 
Life freed from clogs of error, pain, and 

pelf. 
The old, sweet Eden, but a nobler self? 
82 



MOTHER, WHAT CHEER ? 

MOTHER, I stand upon the storm- 
whipt shore 
Of that salt flood whose sources are 

our tears, 
Whose other coast, — O land of hopes 
and fears ! — 
No man knows if it be, forevermore. 
Mindful of thee I sadly reckon o'er 
The clustering blessings of these later 

years ; 
My sun-kissed fields are full of bending 
ears. 
The heaped grain lies about the thresh- 
ing-floor. 
But thou, mother, — I call across the 
flood 
If haply any tiding I may hear. 
Earth was a flint-strewn tread-mill 
where the blood 
From thy brave feet marks out thy 
sad career. 
And night fell ere thou sawest the dear- 
bought good — 
I call across the wave — Mother, what 
cheer? 

83 



SOMETHING REMAINS 

FRIEND, there be some who say the 
gods are dead, 
And all the grace of the world's earlier 

day 
And lingering light of heaven passed 
away, 
And the fine bloom of life forever shed; 
They say the dryads and the nymphs 
are fled ; 
No fauns or satyrs in the clearings 

play, 
Ceres and Bacchus with their bright 
array 
Winepress and threshing-floor no longer 
tread. 

But never Hesiod tasted sweeter thing, 
Horace, nor Master Walther Vogel- 
weid. 
Than I who sit upon a carpet fair 
Of new-born verdure, in this joyous 
spring, 
God in my heart, my dear ones at my 
side. 
Glad just to breathe the universal 
air. 

84 



TO SOME FRIENDS MADE LONG 
AGO AT SEA 

J. M. B. 

DEAR phantoms of my summer's 
golden dream! 
Across the gulf of miles and years I 

fling 
This ghostly greeting, trusting it may 
sing 
No swan-song of remembrance, but 

redeem 

One sweet and pleasant thing from 

Lethe's stream. 

Ere it be swept away. Fond images 

Of the inconstant air! what sorceries 

Shall I employ to make you what you 

seem? 
If, being dreams, I know that ye have 
been, 
How can I know less surely that ye 
may 
Become again substantial, and within 

Some interstellar argosy one day, 
No dear one missing, we may meet again. 
And read earth's tales to while the 
time away. 

85 



GOD KNEW WHAT STORMY SEAS 
p. D. A. 

DEAR uncomplaining, sunny-hearted 
friend, 
The storms that snap thy graver fel- 
lows short, 
The waves that make our destinies 
their sport, 
Leave thee still undismayed. The floods 

descend 
On thy unroofed home; the big clouds 
send 
Merciless hail intent to blot thee out; 
Unfaltering above the ruin and rout 
Thy clear voice rings serene unto the end. 
I marvel much what spiritual mail 
Thus keeps thee scatheless; yet let no 
man think 
Unbroken is unfeeling, — thou'dst not 
quail, 
But still be cheerful on the grave's 
sharp brink : 
God knew what stormy seas thy bark 
should sail, 
And made it buoyant that it might not 
sink. 

86 



LIEDER OHNE WORTE 

L. E. S. 

THE high, unearthly sweetness of 
these airs, 
Wrung out long, long ago by love and 

grief 
From the great master's heartstrings, 
for relief 
Thrilling thus passionately through the 

years 
Rather than break outright, into our 
ears 
Steals softly, unannounced — a kindly 

thief, — 
And, breathing on our dusty strings, 
in brief 
Sets them to singing, and we stand in 

tears. 
Type of the joys and woes of thousands, 
worn 
Serenely and untrumpeted, but turned 
87 



88 Lieder ohne Worte 

Into the voiceless music of loving 
deeds, 
Whose influence ineffable is borne 

Round the great globe to cheerless 
souls that yearned 
In darkness for this answer to their 
needs. 



A POET TO A VIOLINIST 

I CAN set words in order ; I can charm 
With thoughts the heart divined 
but could not speak ; 
Can with the call of honor flush the 
cheek 
Or blanch it with the echoes of alarm. 
But puny are my powers to thine arm, 
Who wieldst the master-bow. Thou 

needst not seek 
The utterance, inadequate and weak, 
Of language and the sttimbling stilts of 
form. 

From that quaint casket, spanned with 

throbbing chords, 
As 't were my heartstrings, thou canst 

voices draw 
Ineffably sad, soft, inarticulate words; 
Canst rule my soul against my reason's 

law, 
Rouse yearnings that no language can 

express 
And break my heart for very tenderness. 



89 



CHARLES ROBINSON OF KANSAS 

WHEN the great ice-floes from the 
pole moved down 
To plow and harrow the mid-continent, 
Upon them rode the granite masses, 
rent 
In passing from the mountains gray and 

brown 
Of the still, frozen North. Men see them 
crown 
The midland knolls, their errant 

forces spent, 
In splendid isolation eloquent, 
Seeming at times to smile, at times to 

frown. 
Of such stern substance was our 
Robinson. 
He rode the human drift — yet steered, 
no less — 
That blest the West with men of 
Mayflower stock ; 
Conscious of strength he loved to stand 
alone, 
Steadfast and cool amid the storm 
and stress. 
On Kansas plains a piece of Ply- 
mouth Rock. 
90 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
(Died June 13, 1878) 

EVEN as the glowing sun sinks in the 
west 
After a perfect cloudless summer day, 
Brim full of busy hours and minutes 

gay 

That with its genial beams have been 

caressed, 
His tireless hands have found their well- 
earned rest 
After these many toilful, fruitful 

years, 
And full of light his life sun disappears 
From all the grateful scenes its rays had 

blessed. 
In him dumb Nature found a skilful 
tongue 
For all the thoughts wherewith her 
breast is rife ; 
Old Homer's harp, by him most sweetly 
strung, 
Has twanged Odysseus' woes and 
Ilion's strife; 
But yet of all the songs this minstrel sung 
The noblest was the poem of his life. 
91 



TO JOHN G. WHITTIER 

J. M. M. 

(In memory of a visit to the poet by two 
friends, one from South Carolina, the other 
from Kansas.) 

BENIGNANT spirit, to thy hallowed 
seat 
Led by the homage due to seer and 

sage, 
Came late two children of the newer 
age 
To sit a deathless hour at thy feet; 
One from the freshened ardor and gener- 
ous heat 
Of the palmetto's twice-bought heri- 
tage. 
And one made from the plains his 
pilgrimage 
Where bleeding Kansas' wounds are 
healed with wheat. 
92 



To John G. IVhittier 93 

Oh, well for thee, my country, proud and 
fair, 
When the new North, reborn in the 
wide West, 
And the new South, in such serener air. 
Shall the new Union in one fane 
invest 
Of sweet good will — and woe to those 
who tear 
Like vampires the old wounds upon 
thy breast! 



JOHN BROWN 

HAD he been made of such poor clay 
as we, 
Who, when we feel a little fire aglow 
'Gainst wrong within us, dare not let 
it grow, 
But crouch and hide it, lest the scorner 

see 
And sneer, yet bask our self-complacency 
In that faint warmth, — ^had he been 

fashioned so, 
The nation ne'er had come to that 
birth-throe 
That gave the world a new humanity. 
He was no vain professor of the word — 
His life a mockery of his creed ; — he 
made 
No discount on the Golden Rule, but 
heard 
Above the Senate's brawls and din of 
trade 
Ever the clank of chains, until he 
stirred 
The nation's heart on that immortal 
raid. 



94 



IT DOES NOT PAY 

IT does not pay to struggle so 
And let the blessed present go — 
To hang wind-swung with hopes and 

fears, 
And long sore-hearted through the 
years, 
While round our feet heaven's violets 
grow. 

Our soul's best treasure we bestow 
On fame — for what, we do not know; 
But cares increase, and graves, and 
tears — 

It does not pay. 

Far off the treacherous vistas show 
Dim splendors in a golden glow; 
Beside us, seen too late, appears 
The hateful woman with the shears; 
Alas, we struggle on although 
It does not pay. 



95 



THE MASTER OF BRYNWOOD 

FAIR Brynwood looks out from the 
hill 
O'er thicket and terrace and lawn, 
Every tree in its place knows the light 
of his face, 
But the Master of Brynwood is gone. 

As aforetime the tremulous east 

Climbs up toward the sky in the dawn, 

But his worshipping eyes who saw God 
in those skies, 
The Master of Brynwood is gone. 

The treasures of art that he loved 

From the walls that he built beckon 
down ; 
On the shelves crowd the friends he had 
brought from earth's ends, 
But the Master of Brynwood is gone. 
96 



The Master of Brynwood 97 

We shall miss the quick wit at the board, 
The wise word from counsel with- 
drawn ; 
We shall start as we turn to his place but 
to learn 
That the Master of Brynwood is gone. 

Yet his spirit, a presence benign, 

In all his loved haunts will live on; 
His life added worth to this corner of 
earth. 
Though the Master of Brynwood be 
gone. 

Dear Mistress of Brynwood, be strong; 

Our hearts too are sore with your pain; 
God's love be your stay till He give you 
one day 

The Master of Brynwood again. 



BENEATH THE ICE 

BENEATH the ice the waters run— 
The roof by frost-elves deftly 
spun — 
Unseen, yet no less rapidly 
To meet the ever-waiting sea 
And with the great deep be made one. 

The stream that under summer's sun 
Turbid and angry tumbled on, 
From every taint of earth is free 
Beneath the ice. 

This life, in storm and stress begun, 
Ere all its seaward course is done 
May its snow-covered levels be 
Of passion quit and vanity, — 
Of self and selfish cares be none 
Beneath the ice. 



98 



THE TIDE IS OUT 

THE tide is out, and left and right 
Full many a grewsome, uncouth 
sight 
The marshy river flats reveal, 
While here and there a venturous keel 
Creeps warily through some shallow 
bight. 

Above, the sea-gulls gray and white 
Weird calling wing their heavy flight ; 
The dripping piers despondent feel 
The tide is out. 

Thus in the soul erst crystal bright 
Unlovely objects come to light, 

When the high floods of faith and zeal, 
Wont with their kind waves to conceal 
Our frailties, ebb, and in the night 
The tide is out. 



99 



UNDER THE LEAVES 

A CARPET all of faded brown, 
On the gray bough a dove that 
grieves ; 
Death seemeth here to have his own, 
But the spring violets nestle down 
Under the leaves. 

A brow austere and sad gray eyes. 

Locks in which Care her silver weaves; 
Hope seemeth tombed no more to rise. 
But God He knoweth on what wise 
Love for Love's sunshine waiting lies 
Under the leaves. 



lOO 



A STORMY NIGHT 

THE wind is full of homeless souls — 
Each man pray for his near ones ! 
They wail along the lower sky 
And the tops of the great elms toss and 
sigh— 
May God protect my dear ones ! 

The cold moon rides with her evil eye — 

Each man pray for his near ones ! 
The storm is rising from the sea 
And all the spirits of wrath are free — 
May God protect my dear ones ! 

The clouds scud low above the lea — 
Each man pray for his near ones ! 

Ere morn what boat may lie on the 
shoals? 

What home be a heap of ashes and coals? 
May God protect my dear ones ! 



lOI 



WOULD GOD I WERE NOW BY 
THE SEA 

(Theme from Euripides) 

WOULD God I were now by the sea^ 
On the sandy, sea-weed shore, 
Where the waves from the other side of 

the world 
Roll in forever with high crests curled, 
Roll in for evermore. 

Would God I were now on the shore 

With the smooth sand 'neath my feet. 
With the salt fresh gale blowing round 

my head. 
And the scolding sea-gulls with wings 
outspread, — 
The sea-gulls flying fleet. 

Would God I were now on the wave, 
On the rising, sinking deck, 

102 



Would God I Were Now by the Sea 103 

While the cares that have made me 

weary of time 
Might still have the mountain wall to 

climb 
And never find my track. 

Would God I were now on the deck, 

Far front on the soaring prow, 
With eyes on the far-off, phantom sail, 
Or the changing green of the swirling 
swale, — 
The soft green field we plow. 

Ah, God, for the giant sea. 

The restless, restful sea! 
With wife and wee one close by my side 
And a few good friends with their dis- 
course wide 

To soothe and comfort me. 



KING ARTHUR'S HUNT 
A Legend of Gascogne * 

OH, Arthur the King on a Sunday 
morn 
In a country church was praying, 
When he heard through the door the 
blast of a horn, 
And his good hound Hauston baying. 

Oh, his huntsman's heart leaped sharp 
in his breast, 

And his lips forgot their duty ; 
He rose from his knees all unconfessed 

To follow the forest's booty. 

But woe is the man, be he knave or king, 
Who lightly leaves his praying, 

For love, or for danger, or anything, 
Yea, even a deer-hound's baying. 

* It is a curious fact in folk-lore that this 
legend, essentially that of the Wild Huntsman, 
should be found in southern France attached 
to King Arthur. 

104 



King Arthur's Hunt 105 

But Arthur the King 's on his courser's 
back, 
And his horn makes a music merry, — • 
When the tempests of God snatch hunter 
and pack 
And up to the welkin carry. 

And ever unshriven along the sky, 
At midnight, with wild hallooing 

And baying of hounds, King Arthur 
storms by, 
A phantom stag pursuing. 

And when on a wild and furious night 
The children are tucked under cover, 

They murmur a prayer, twixt pity and 
fright, 
For the poor king flying over. 



FAREWELL TO A MODEST 
SCHOLAR 

(ARTHUR GRAVES CANFIELD) 

WITHOUT ado, as he has done 
His work among us, he '11 be 
gone. 
The rulers will not realize 
That they have lost a priceless prize. 
Serenely they will meet the case 
And talk of filling Canfield's place; 
Who know him, know such hope is vain; 
Wise, patient, clear, judicious, fair. 
The artist temper, fine and rare — 
We shall not see his like again. 

He had not learned to sound the trump 
Of his own merits, nor could pump 
Praise from his students, quid pro quo; 
He did not keep a press bureau. 
He never slapped the powers that be 
In jovial jest upon the knee. 
He minded his own business, which 
He understood to be — to teach; 
1 06 



Farewell to a Modest Scholar 107 

Impartially to gem and clod 
He taught as in the fear of God. 

He taught as in the fear of God ; 
The toilsome, patient way he trod, 
Knowing that what is built to stay 
Is never builded in a day; 
That conscience in the teacher's ways 
More teaches than her loudest praise 
From such as follow wandering lights 
Of gain, world's plaudits, rank, and 

spites ; 
That scholarship and character 
Worth more than show and trappings 

are. 

He had no cabinets to show 

Of Nature's wonders set a-row, 

The output of his annual pains, 

He merely worked in human brains ; 

Dealt in the deathless thoughts of men — • 

His tool the inconspicuous pen. 

His has the thankless office been 

To represent the things unseen. 

Without ado, as he has done 

His work among us, he '11 be gone. 



MY MUSE 

NO coy Greek to lure and tease me, — 
All her thought intent to please 
me, 
On a stool my chair beside, 
Saxon-haired and Scottish-eyed, 
Sits my muse, a sprite substantial. 

I am forced to do no wooing; 

Half the time I hear her cooing, 
Hear her patter on the floor. 
Or her tapping at my door, — 

Keep her out? What mortal man shall? 

She has pinky arms and bosom — 
It would break my heart to lose 'em; 
And her stature 's not divine — 
Somewhere about three feet nine ; 
Reynolds never would have missed her. 
io8 



My Muse 109 

She 's her will of trie for wishing, 
And to-day she goes a-fishing 
With a mahlstick for a pole, 
For her line a shoestring whole, — 
What brook-dweller could resist her? 

I cannot; my rhymes confusing, 
She has caught, this maid amusing. 
Her papa, without a hook. 
Pulled him clean out of his book. 
And a foolish fish I flounder. 



THE PLACE TO BE BORN 

I MET last night a wandering sprite, 
Flying the wide world over, 
Prepared for birth on God's dear earth, 
A body-seeking rover. 

* ' God greet thee, man, '* the sprite began, 
''Right glad I am to meet thee; 

To-morrow morn I 'm to be born; 
Thy counsel, I entreat thee. " 

* ' Asia I scanned and Europe-land — 
Scenes I should be forlorn in ; 

Thou 'st travelled wide; help me decide 
The best place to be born in. '* 

*' Dear sprite, " I said, ''I praise thy 
head; 
Far more than rich bonanzas 
Thy birthplace worth ; thou 'It find on 
earth 
No better place than Kansas. " 



no 



FLOWER AND SONG 



I DUG a little flower 
From out the forest-shade, 
And set it in my garden 
Where light and sunshine played. 

I went to watch it daily, 

I tended it with care, 
And said, ** With this no other 

Shall ever dare compare/' 

And yet it slowly withered 
Beneath the cheerful sun. 

And died there in my garden 
Before a week was done. 

II 

I took a little fancy 

From out my tangled brain, 
And set it to the music 

Of an old-time, sweet refrain. 
Ill 



112 Flower and Song 

I decked it out in figures, 
I nursed it with fine words, 

And said, *' My little songlet 
Shall be sung by all the birds. 

Its spirit waned and vanished 
Beneath its wordy weight, 

And it died with all its music 
And met the flower's fate. 



A MIRACLE 

DOWN through the dusty streets 
I go: 
The prosy brick fronts stand arow ; 
Electric wires besieve the sky, 
Electric cars go clanging by; 
The July sun malignant glares 
Upon the huckster's drooping wares; 
The sparrows in the gutter flirt 
Ditch-water on my lady's skirt ; 
Two miles of this to Boston town, — 
Enough to cast one's spirits down! 
Then suddenly a breath of air, 
Unheralded, from who knows where, 
Brings to my sense an odor faint, 
Unrecognized yet eloquent. 
And, whiff! the dulsome street is gone — 
Before me towers the Pantheon! 
Behind that mighty portico 
Lurk the great gods of long ago ; 
About me flit the imperious shades 
Of those who built these colonnades: 

8 113 



114 A Miracle 

Agrippa, he who talked with Paul, 

Trajan, Septimius and all 

The older and the newer lords 

Who bound the Seven Hills with cords. 

Time is wiped out, and once again 

I mingle with Italian men, 

While on me, scarce a league from home, 

Falls the immortal spell of Rome. 



EVERY SPRING IS GREENER 

1WAS walking with the senator to 
catch the early train,- — 
The senator with stocks and bonds 
galore, — 
And for fit commercial phrases I was 
cudgelling my brain, 
When quite unexpectedly 
Said the senator to me : 
"Somehow this spring seems greener 
than any spring before/' 

"I see no especial reason, and it was 
not always so. 
But I Ve noticed it a dozen years or 
more; 
And I wonder whether others, when the 
green begins to grow 
Bright enough to catch the eye, 
Feel about it as do I : 
That each new spring is greener than 
any spring before/' 
115 



ii6 Every Spring Is Greener 

The senator is hearty, but his crown is 
growing gray,— 
His years are fifty-three or fifty- four, — 
And this may not be the reason, but I 
rather think it may, — 
For the contrast with the snow 
On his head perhaps may show 
Why the green each spring seems greener 
than any spring before. 

Youth, they say, is hope's own season, 
but they know not what they 
mean; 
Youth 's a butterfly that wings the 
garden o'er. 
Seeking gaudy flowers that perish, while 
in age that gUdes serene 
Down Hfe's final snowy slope 
Stronger grows immortal hope 
And every spring is greener than any 
spring before. 



> THE GOSPEL OF HATE 

" We are unanimous in our hatred of Eng- 
land.*' — From a late interview with a late 
statesman, 

HATE England? Hate our kith and 
kin 
That speak our common mother- 
tongue, 
The speech that Hampden thundered in, 
The tones that Burns and Milton 
sung? 

Hate England ? Hate our ancient home, 
Whose every acre knows a story, 

From Caithness' crags to Cornwall's foam, 
Of Keltic pluck and Saxon glory? 

But who is this that preaches hate ? 

I think we know the accent well, — 
The fallen archangel of our State, 

The scoffing civic infidel, 
117 



1 1 8 The Gospel of Hate 

Who built a great renown of spite, 
Who called the Christian statesman 
fool, 

Who based his law of right on might 
And cast away the Golden Rule. 

So, while the bells of Christendom 
Tell earthly homes and empyrean 

That Christ, the Prince of Peace, is come, 
The lowly, loving Galilean, 

A new messiah clears his throat 
Bad tidings of great woe to tell, 

And utters with discordant note 
The gospel of the reign of hell. 

And thoughtless followers mid the murk 
Of war revise the angels' strain: 

Peace e'en to the unspeakable Turk, 
Good will to all but Englishmen ! 

Hate lust for land, and hate no less 
The greed that seeks its gain in gore; 

Stand firm as England taught us, yes, 
Against aggression evermore. 



The Gospel of Hate 119 

Hate bullying? Aye. Hate greed? Amen. 

Hate tyranny and wrong? Forever — 
In Briton or American; 

But hate all England? Shame! No, 
never! 



A NEW YEARNS THOUGHT 

WHILE Christmas comes around 
but once a year 
With Christmas revelry and Christmas 

cheer, 
Life starts anew with each new morning 

ray 
And every day, thank God, is New 
Year's Day. 



1 20 



OLD YEAR AND NEW 

THE Old Year has done what it could 
for me; 
All of it that was good for me 

Has now become a part of me. 
Whatever the New may bring to me, 
May only the good of it cling to me 
And enter into the heart of me. 



121 



TO-MORROW 

(Free after a Spanish song) 

BLEST of love but yesterday, 
Lorn of love to-day I sorrow; 
Though to-morrow I should die, 
Yet to-day and eke to-morrow 
Would I dream of yesterday. 



122 



LIFE 
(From the Italian of Metastasio) 

THE Past is not, but memory 
With vivid brush recalls it; 
The Future is not, but fond hope 
With eager breath forestalls it. 
The Present only is — a flash — 
It passes ere the thunder's crash. 
Such, then, is life and all that 's in it: 
A hope, a memory, and a minute. 



123 



HYMN 

FOR THE DEDICATION OF A LAW SCHOOL 

(University of Kansas) 

OF old Upon the mountain height, 
Subdued by deep and solemn awe, 
His face aglow with unknown light, 
The Hebrew seer received the law. 

No maze of precedent confused 
The feet that first on Sinai trod; 

The primal code of Israel used 
The plain and simple will of God. 

May those who gather at this shrine. 
Both those who teach and those who 
learn. 
As to a presence all divine 

Bring hearts that for God's service 
burn. 

124 



Hymn 125 

Here, as of old upon the mount, 
The law to men shall be revealed, 

And here at learning's christening font 
Her chosen Levites shall be sealed. 

Grant in this later day, O Lord, 

That right and law may blend in one, 

And justice show a flaming sword 
To every wrong beneath the sun. 



LIFE AT K. S. U. 
(Air : *S giht kein schoner Lehen) 

NEITHER prince nor peasant leads 
a life so pleasant 
As the student's life at K. S. U. 
Fair Mount Oread daily he ascendeth 
gaily 
And descends again when day is 
through ; 
By his side a maiden with whose books 
he 's laden 
And perhaps a vagrant thought or two ; 
Who can see and wonder that he *s loth 
to sunder 
His associations with K. U. 

Or, since tastes will vary and the maids 
be chary, 
Some with bulldogs have to be con- 
tent; 
Not on sweets and flowers, all their coin 
and powers 

126 



Life at K. S. U. 127 

Now on pipes and puppycakes are 
spent. 
And, mirabile dictu! there are some who 
stick to 
Study, when they 've nothing else to 
do; 
Who can see and wonder that they 're 
loth to sunder 
Their associations with K. U. 

Earth 's no vision rarer, not a landscape 
fairer 
Then each day before our eyes ex- 
pands; 
Kansas skies are bluer, Kansas hearts 
are truer 
Than the hearts and skies of other 
lands. 
Then whatever the weather, let us sing 
together: 
Rock Chalk for the Crimson and the 
Blue; 
Neither prince nor peasant leads a life 
so pleasant 
As the student's life at K. S. U. 



TRINK AUF MEIN WOHL MIT 
AUGEN NUR 

(Aus dent Englischen von Ben Jonson) 

TRINK auf mein Wohl mit Augen 
nur, 
So trink' ich auch auf deins, 
Oder im Becher lass 'nen Kuss, 

So wiinscht' ich nie des Weins. 
Den Durst, der von der Seele steigt, 

Nur Himmelsnektar stillt, 
Den deinen tauscht' ich aber nicht 
Um den, der Gottern quillt. 

Dir schickt' ich jiingst 'nen Rosenkranz, 

Dir nicht so wohl zur Ehr', 
Als in der Hoffnung, dass bei Dir 

Er unverwelket war' ; 
Du hauchtest nur die Rosen an 

Und sandst sie wieder mir, 
Da bluhn und duften sie, fiirwahr, 

Nach Rosen nicht, nach Dir. 



128 



OFT IN DER STILLEN NACHT 
(Aus dem EngUschen von Thomas Moore) 

OFT in der stillen Nacht, 
Eh mich der Schlaf befangen, 
Sanft mir's im Herzen tagt 

Von Zeiten, die vergangen; 
Die Freud\ das Leid der Kinderzeit, 

Die holden Wort' gesprochen, 
Die Augen lieb, versunken triib, 

Treu' Herzen nun gebrochen; 
So senkt die stille Nacht, 

Eh mich der Schlaf befangen, 
Sanft um mich her das Licht 

Der Zeiten, die vergangen. 

Denk' ich der Freunde alV 

Also verknupft, wie Blatter 
Zerstreuet nach dem Fall 

Des Laubs im Winterwetter, 
Mir ist, wie dem, der einsam kam' 

Zum Saale nach dem Schmause, 
Die Fackeln fort, die Kranz' verdorrt. 

Die Gaste langst nach Hause; 
So senkt die stille Nacht, 

Eh mich der Schlaf befangen, 
Sanft um mich her das Licht 

Der Zeiten, die vergangen. 
129 



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